


The TSA Doesn't Pay Enough For This

by dome_epais



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: DADT Repeal, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Tape, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-13 13:00:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/824573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dome_epais/pseuds/dome_epais
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray gets the mass email from Brad's mom at 3am. Brad's coming home. Ray nearly bites through his own tongue in excitement, and sends Brad a direct email: <i>24hrs 4 fam. keep 2nd night free or else!!!</i><br/>(or, the one where Ray abuses his film degree and Brad gets the welcome home of his life)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The TSA Doesn't Pay Enough For This

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wargasms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wargasms/gifts).



> a gift for wargasms, who I'm sure is sick of all my emotional plot-heavy stories by now

Ray gets the mass email from Brad's mom at 3am. He’s just getting in from a night out and he’s about to crash, but he never, ever ignores a communication from Mrs. Colbert. With Brad on tour, it’s the only reliable source of information on him.

Not to mention that Brad’s only given her permission to disseminate a set range of intel; a mass email means he’s either wounded, dead, or coming home.

Coming home, it turns out. Ray reads the drunk-blurry words, nearly bites through his own tongue in excitement, and sends Brad a direct email: _24hrs 4 fam. keep 2nd night free or else!!!_

Then he books his flight and passes out while palming a semi.

\--

He checks into a hotel right next to the airport, fully expecting to have to check out by phone. He drops his bag on the king-sized bed, throws his spare set of clothes over his shoulder, and gets out his equipment.

He sets up the tripod, tests the lighting by second-nature. The great thing about film school? A kick-ass camera setup.

Then he strips the covers half off the bed and upends his duffle. Sex toys and lube go everywhere - that had been a hilarious conversation with the TSA agents. It turns out that the total volume of small liquid containers still needs to fit in a quart-sized bag, which a) is still a _lot_ of lube and b) means that some poor asshole has to log and file away the twenty other little bottles they confiscated.

Ray laughs while he’s stripping - his clothes go everywhere, his shirt across the lamp, his shorts and skivvies getting tangled up in the pillows. He’s so keyed up. Has to take the edge off, just from looking forward to this.

He checks the camera and gets on his knees for it, angling so he’s sure his hard-on’s visible, heavy against his balls, below his asshole. Then he grabs the lube and slicks his fingers and gets one inside, no more fucking around.

Or, well. Lots more.

“Fuck,” he grits out, screwing his wrist around. “Fuck. Gonna get myself ready for you, Brad. It’s gonna blow your fucking mind.” Then, once that’s out there and on camera, his mouth just _goes_ \- he’s up to two fingers and talking about that time he caught Brad during a combat jack, how he saw _exactly_ how thick and long his dick is.

He spent the entire flight trying to decide what to say during this part. Or maybe not to say anything at all. Maybe confessions about how often Ray jerks off to thoughts of Brad will freak the guy out. But seriously, if Ray talking is a boner-killer, this is going to be the least of Ray’s problems.

In the end, Ray’s arching back against the biggest dildo he owns, and it’s all pretty much out of his control. He vaguely hears himself talking about all the different flavors of lube he brought and how they’re going to taste inside Brad when he comes his brains out.

He bites off uncomfortable sounds as he pulls the dildo out and collapses on his side. He blinks at the alarm clock telling him he still has a couple of hours before Brad’s homecoming grace period ends.

And then he decides that he doesn’t give a shit about following his own rules, puts in a wide-based plug, and turns off the camera. He has places the be and dicks to be riding.

\--

The taxi drops him off at the end of Brad’s driveway and Ray walks up to the door with his camera out, the viewer already playing back the boring parts of Ray getting himself naked and situated.

Brad opens the door on the 20th straight knock, wearing only sweatpants, skin wet and flushed from the kind of post-desert shower that Ray knows all too well. He’d feel shitty about interrupting, but then. He has a better welcome-home present, anyway.

“Ray--” Brad starts, glaring like the start of a classic litany of Ray’s faults.

Ray doesn’t have that kind of time. He hands the camera to Brad, the viewer showing him ass-up and panting. Brad’s eyebrows fly toward his hairline, but he keeps his grip on the camera, which is all Ray can really ask.

“What the fuck,” is all Brad says, dangerously monotone.

Ray hitches his bag of supplies higher on his shoulder and walks right past him into the house. He heads directly for Brad’s bedroom, figuring Brad’ll catch up when he’s ready.

He’s already stepping out of his shorts again by the time Brad fills up the doorway. He’s not holding the camera anymore, but he’s looking at Ray like he’s never seen him before. “Ray,” he says again, in a whole new way. Like he has no idea where to even start on a revised list of Ray’s issues.

Ray rolls his eyes at him. “Come on, Brad. It’s not like I’m being subtle. Are you in?” He starts rearranging the pillows on Brad’s bed, stacking them haphazardly against the headboard.

Brad’s just staring at him. Oh - probably noticed the plug in Ray’s asshole. He’s a noticer, after all. Brad takes a deep breath and asks, “Why the fuck are you doing this?”

Is this a trick question? Ray says, “Because I want to?”

“Why _right now_ ,” Brad amends, getting pissy.

“Honestly? Because they chucked DADT,” Ray says with a shrug. “You staying in was what stopped me before. Well - and the Fick thing.”

It’s hard to tell, but Brad’s flush might be deepening. “For the thousandth time, _there was no_ \--”

“Sure, sure. Whatever. You’re not as subtle as you think you are.” Ray waves at the bed. “But hey, look, you can’t get court martialed! Let’s fuck.”

“This is by far--” Brad starts, which doesn’t sound like a no.

Ray gets in close to him, rubs his hard-on against Brad’s bare abs, and tucks his fingers in the waistband of Brad’s sweats. “For fuck’s sake, Colbert, shut up and let me ride your stupid dick,” he demands.

Brad looks like he’s grinding his teeth, and it takes him long, long seconds of consideration, but he takes the sweats off and steps closer to the bed.

“Excellent. Sit down, up against the headboard, let’s go,” Ray instructs, going for his bag. He pulls out condoms and another thing of lube and gets a judgemental look for his trouble. Following Brad up onto the bed on his knees, Ray says, “So I assumed all your shit would be expired. Sue me for being prepared.”

Brad shakes his head and grabs at him, his huge hands spanning from Ray’s hips to the crease under his ass, and then he _pulls_. Suddenly Ray’s knees are miles apart, stretched over Brad’s tree-trunk thighs, and Brad’s telling him, “God, I hope you at least shut the fuck up once you’ve come.”

“You’re gonna get to see for yourself,” Ray promises, and opens one of the condoms. “Hey, take the plug out?”

Brad’s right hand migrates over and down, and then his fingers are circling around Ray’s rim, where he’s held open. They press, just a little. Just enough for Ray to grunt and push back into them.

Brad’s elbows close around his ribs and drag Ray in tight, chest-to-chest. Brad hooks his chin over Ray’s shoulder to look at where he’s twisting the toy in circles. He says, low against Ray’s ear, “What if I wanted to finger you?”

“Fucking -- _next time_ ,” Ray forces out, trying to keep still as the plug does some weird-feeling shit to his prostate. “I have a whole plan of attack, here! And the ROE don’t cover much foreplay, okay?”

Brad opens his mouth and digs his teeth into Ray’s skin and works the plug out, fast and rough, then leaves the tips of his fingers to keep him open, feel how loose he is.

“Hurry up,” Ray whines.

“You’re the one holding the condom, fuckwit,” Brad snipes back, and, right. Shit.

Ray tries to back off to see Brad’s dick, but Brad won’t give him any room, so he has to work the condom down with his arm awkwardly behind him, blind and clumsy. But it has the benefit of leaving Brad’s dick in his hand so he can just hold it still, lift away from Brad’s fingers, and sink down. He takes it in one long gorgeous slide, right to the hilt, and it leaves both of them breathing like they’ve been punched.

Then, before Ray’s got himself together, Brad rocks back and _up_ , and Ray has to grab his arms and start some bruises of his own. He’s ready for the next one and meets it with all his weight; then, natural as breathing, they’ve got a rhythm that pulls a nice, deep groan out of Brad.

Ray huffs out a laugh and grinds down into Brad’s lap, just to throw him off, and then laughs even more at Brad’s frustrated growl. He drags slowly up Brad’s cock and slams down again, and asks, “What, not gonna let me run the show, Brad?”

“ _Fuck_ , just shut up,” Brad grits out, both hands coming up to Ray’s neck, thumbs digging into his jaw, immobilizing it for Brad to lick right into his mouth. They kiss all messy and wet, panting across each other’s cheeks like dogs, but as long as Brad’s busy with that he can’t get the leverage to counter Ray’s uncoordinated bouncing.

But eventually Brad breaks the kiss and lets Ray drop his face into the crook of his shoulder. He grasps Ray’s hips and steers them into a fast, hard rhythm, shoving himself back into the pile of pillows, knocking them everywhere. Leaning forward like this, Brad’s cock drags hard against Ray’s prostate, and he doesn’t even try to keep his mouth shut.

“I knew it,” he gasps against Brad’s neck. “I knew it’d be exactly like this. So big in me -- shit, it’s so good, Brad, just like --  it _had_ to be this good, after all that time I spent -- _waiting_ , fuck, do that again, just like that --”

Brad pinches his nipple, _hard_ , so that Ray yelps and has to break off that monologue. Brad tells him, “I’m not your prom date, Person, you don’t need to sweet talk me.”

“Hah. Thought of asking you out,” Ray confesses. “You know? Do the whole dinner and a movie thing. But I figured you’d end up needing to hide my body by the end of the night. Isn’t this much easier?”

“That’s it,” Brad decides, “next time I’m gagging you.”

Ray lifts his head up to argue. “No, next time you’re fucking my face. I’ve already worked that out, too,” he explains when Brad gives him an extra-hard thrust. “But the time after that, that can be the gagging and the fingering, how’s that?” he offers, getting close and feeling generous.

Brad circles a hand around his dick instead of answering. After that, it’s a rush to the finish, and Ray’s striping come up Brad’s stomach, and Brad’s leaving a huge bite-mark for real as he fills up the condom.

In the haze of the afterglow, Ray lets Brad manhandle him off and over to the side, and leave him there to head for the bathroom. Ray did all the setup and planning, after all; Brad can handle the clean-up.

But once they’re both mostly wiped up, Brad gets back into the bed, and Ray rolls over to stick his face against his bicep.

Brad elbows him, gently, trying to dislodge him, but Ray’s not going anywhere. “No, Ray,” Brad says in his best Staff Sergeant voice. “No cuddling.”

“I call bullshit,” Ray says, and throws one leg over Brad’s knee before deciding he’s not moving for a while.

“You’re like an annoying piece of shit stuck to my shoe,” Brad grunts at him.

Ray thinks about it for a second and then smirks, wicked and sharp and fucked-out. “Does that mean you track me around everywhere you go?”

Brad shoves at him, and doesn’t stop him from rolling right back in. “That’s exactly what it means, asshole.”

Which, whatever, that barely counts as an insult. Ray will take it.

A long time later, Brad adds, “And you’d better delete that shitty sex tape within the fucking hour.”

Ray snorts. “Are you kidding me? That gem is going out with the next Bravo newsletter.”

Brad shoves him right over the edge of the bed for that, and Ray just laughs and laughs at him.


End file.
